If You Listen Carefully, You'll Hear It Always
by kabukimono
Summary: Sometimes, words are not enough. Sheryl and Alto in episode 22, warning for some mentioning of adult things.


Sheryl and Alto, Episode 22. Warning for some vague descriptions of adult actions and all that.

* * *

please give me courage, alto.

the courage to continue singing until the very end.

she wants to shout, to scream, to cry but before she can do so, she feels his lips against her own and she inhales, choking back a sob. his lips are as soft as she's always thought that they would be (she imagines that he took good care of his appearance because she knows from experience how lipstick look so badly on lips that are torn and rough from carelessness).

her hands, already tight in the fabric of his clothing, continue to cling as she exhales against his lips, finding them to be a soothing distraction from the wetness on her cheeks and the way her chest aches when she breathes in.

he is as awkward with this as she would have expected from a man as flustered with the opposite sex as he is. it is almost endearing, if not for the ache in her heart. but he is nothing if not determined, and she can feel the way his eyebrows furrow as he puts his all into it, pushing back gently against her as they both slowly warm to the situation.

were it any other time, she might laugh, might tease him for how seriously he is taking it, but there is nothing to say. they are beyond words, and she is beyond trying to comprehend the feelings, the pain, loneliness, the despair.

they are all too easy to forget as he breaks the case, his mouth trailing over to her cheek as though he thinks that will hide the way he blushes. she can tell from the heat that she feels and and his ragged breathing, but she can't bring herself to smile. instead she lifts a hand from his back to his face, and he turns to kiss her again.

something that cannot be expressed in words.

as a songstress she feels that she should be offended for the way that she finds herself unable to speak any longer, though she tries to whisper his name against his mouth. his lips parts and his tongue presses against hers, stiff and somehow even more awkward than before, but earnest and she lets him in as readily as she had accepted him into her heart.

the heat of his mouth gives her courage. it grounds her. makes her feel alive, and there's a growing fire in her belly that isn't unlike the feeling in the middle of a concern with the lights on her and all the eyes in the world. when she's the center of the galaxy and it's as though the lights the fans are waving have become the stars themselves circling the sun.

in this room, in this world in which she's largely forgotten and even the (fake) moon isn't shining its brilliance on her, she's still the center of the galaxy. his arms tighten around her and she cries again, thinking that maybe it was he who was the center of the galaxy all along, and she feels swallowed by the darkness once again.

for all her fan service and sex appeal, she has never allowed anyone to get so close. not as close as he is now, in more than one way, the way that he takes her off guard and fills her heart with love. she's too proud, too busy, too focused on her goal to let a single person interfere with her life as the galactic fairy.

but she is not the galactic fairy any longer. she is sheryl nome. a human. a human who seeks warmth in the arms of another.

she feels more than she hears, a lullaby creeping along her limbs and into her heart, and it gives her courage as much as his warmth. it is soft and low, and she wonders if he hears it too, the way that he shifts until she's lying back against the soft blankets, and he's leaning over her, letting his hair fall over his shoulders like water, pooling and tangling with her own. it's not fair, she thinks with a frown on her slightly swollen lips, for a man to have nicer hair than she does.

he gets the wrong idea, but at least she isn't crying any longer, and his hands trace the path of the tears on her face. they touch her cheeks, wipe the remaining wetness off her jaw, and then trail even further down her neck and to the sliver of collarbone that shows beyond the hem of her clothing. she lets out a breath she didn't know she was holding, and her own hand lifts to touch his, sliding along his long fingers and to his wrist. when he hesitates, she pushes forward of her own volition, refusing to allow herself to be scared, even for his sake. she guides his hand to where it needs to be.

he is very fast learner, she reminds herself, as he leaves pools of fire on her skin where his fingers touch and caress. a prodigy, even. a professional. and she is a professional as well, reaching up to push that jacket off his shoulders and down his arm. it is bulky and has no place being here now. he responds by tugging open her clothing with one hand.

this is nothing like the encounters she's read in those torrid novels, where men whisk the women off their feet to a private room. where the man is attentive and the woman's heaving bosom gets more description than it really needs. when he tries to follow her lead, he stumbles and almost falls, and she holds him close, pulling out his hair tie so that she can run her fingers through that perfectly straight, silky hair and kiss him.

it is a wordless assurance, and she can feel him relax under her fingertips. she is just as determined as he is, and if he thought he was getting off, he is wrong. she can feel the hint of muscle against her arms, and she seeks it out further, slipping a hand under his shirt and tracing her name into his back. as expected, his skin is as flawless as hers.

even in this state, sick and exhausted and weak, she is attractive to him, isn't she? she can feel it just as surely as she can feel her own arousal, a fire that starts in her belly and engulfs her, feeling her heart with a warmth she hadn't thought she'd feel again after the iron grip of despair. there are no words to describe how complete he has made her world in this moment

he is beyond words as well, as his mouth follows the path of his fingers, and she can only breathe, quiet noises that sound nothing like the songs she sings slipping past her lips. it would be a shame to scar that beautiful skin, so she keeps her nails to herself, instead pressing her fingertips into the muscles of his back and shoulder as more of their skin is revealed to one another.

they're both scared, of what tomorrow will bring, and the day after. and if she's lucky, the day after that. she'll keep singing until there's nothing left, but for now words are unnecessary. he kisses the curve of one breast and hesitates, lifting his head and opening his mouth as though to ask her permission – but she cuts him off with a finger and a smile. already he's giving her courage, to continue to press on. as long as he is _here_, by her side, she can continue on despite everything.

he gets the hint.

he is still a teenaged boy, after all, a teenaged boy who's had to grow up far too quickly in the past months and one who's accepted the responsibility of adulthood multiple times over. for all his determination, his touches are inexperienced but sincere, and she finds herself guiding him just as much as he needs to guide her as she tries to explore his body. yet again, she thinks about how beautiful he is, and in this moment – how lucky she is. he's promised. promised to stay until the end.

the hands that pilot those valkyries so effortlessly become more experienced with time. each time he hears an excited gasp or a hitched breath, he repeats the motions before, as though trying to memorize her body, like one would memorize flight plans. she is nothing like a plane, she thinks, trying to pout a little but failing miserably as he lets his tongue brush against her skin. she is warm flesh and soft curves. and, she thinks with a giggle that's met with a slight frown, he is warm flesh and not so soft curves, her fingers brushing against the hardness of the muscle in his stomach, his legs, his...

it is only when he's shifting to cover her more completely, his body flush and burning hot against her own, their bare legs entangling, that she hesitates. she is infected. she's sick. her own life is forfeit. but his life is precious. she wants to protect him as much as he wants to protect her. and that is not the only potential consequence of this impulsive action.

he seems to understand, feeling the way that her hands settle lightly against his shoulders. he shakes his head, lifting a hand to touch her face. and then he kisses her again and the answer is there. the permission that she gave him earlier is returned, and she finds that she can do nothing but allow him further into her heart, opening her legs until they're both comfortable. his weight is solid and protective, and she laughs breathlessly at the way the loose strands of hair tickle her neck and chest.

he is beyond taking offense, and retaliates quickly with his actions, as he always does. her breath catches in her throat at the sudden sting, the pain, that leaves just as quickly and is replaced with soreness that's only barely abated at the way he fills her. she tries not to wince or cringe, or show any weakness, but he feels the tension in her body, and is instantly apologetic, his arms wrapping around her to pull her into his arms as he leaves gentle, distracting kisses against her lips.

already, he is getting much better at this.

the lullaby from earlier is stronger, pulsating in her heart just as surely as he pulses within her. she closes her eyes and it echoes again and again in her heart. the rhythm of it is apparent in their motions as she gains her courage and leads him into a dance, a song, with her that she has never known before but already knows. she wonders if he hears it as well, because he matches her so perfectly, they work together so smoothly, and already all thought is leaving her except that song and the rhythm and the feeling of completion that the boy – _man – _has given her.

in these moments she's more than sheryl nome, a mere human. she feels like the center of the galaxy, the center of _his_ galaxy and that's all that matters. because in these moments all that matters is their breath, and their fingers, and the sounds they make as they stumble and learn and perfect the motions together of this song. when either steps out of line with a loud noise, a gasp, a moan, a strangled word that might've been a name, they are quick to correct themselves, though she particularly doesn't care, for once, about perfection.

he is... still a teenaged boy. she thinks that she might die tonight, might be consumed by the heat and the pleasure, and the white hot fire that builds up between her legs and in the back of mind, and she can barely hear his gasp and groan through the static in her ears (that just might be her own breathing). but she is aware of the way he stiffens above and inside of her, and her nails slip and dig into his skin as she answers him with a noise of her own, their hearts combining into one final rhythm. it was that final thought – that despite everything, despite her illness and her weakness, that he is here, with her, like this – that brings her to the edge, and she clings to him as a fire explodes in her belly. it seems like it all passed too quickly, and yet she feels as though a thousand nights have passed as though she were scheherazade and each time they meet is another story that has been told. again and again and...

he is quiet, breathing heavily against her shoulder, and she's still shaking slightly as she runs her finger through his damp, now slightly tangled hair. she sighs.

something that cannot be expressed in words, is it? she is beyond words in this moment. there's nothing more to say, even though a pained noise escapes her lips when he moves and separates, even when he half-heartedly tugs her clothing more closed and brings her into his arms and she sighs out into his shoulder and kisses their intertwined hands. he's exhausted, she can tell from heaviness in his limbs even as he tries to be a good man, a good lover, and covers her with the blankets. soon enough, he is sleeping, hair disheveled and cheeks still flushed from the activity, and she lets that sight sink into her memory as her own eyes slip shut.

that lullaby is still there, and she lets that voice lull her into a dreamless sleep. with what he's given her, she will keep on running. she will sing until she breaths her final breath on stage. there is nothing more to fear. nothing more to lose. not when she has given everything to this man and received it all in return.


End file.
